Ticket Machine
by dice and zombies
Summary: Stan Shunpike ponders the Daily Prophet, pimples, and the meaning of fame. Short and sweet.


_amber lights flashing 'cross the street  
and on the corner - a dream to meet  
going on 'an on._  
  
Paul Weller, "Stanley Road" (1995)  
  
Ticket Machine  
  
Stan Shunpike scratched at the side of his cheek and glanced over at Ernie (narrowly skirting a dustbin on the corner of Petticoat Lane) and the patrons of the bus (asleep and snoring viciously). He stuck his nose back behind his newspaper and squinted at the close-printed columns. Another late shift (they thought they could just shuffle him around) and Stan was so tired he couldn't see straight. The ticket machine was starting to weigh heavy around his neck, all straps and angles that poked him when he tried to ensconce himself in the cushions of the conductor's armchair. He'd flung himself out of the bus to greet multiple passengers throughout the evening, and nobody seemed to much respect the effort it took.  
  
The chandelier overhead swung raggedly with the motion of the bus. An especially noisy snore came from somewhere near the back, and a plastic container of little frog-shaped vitamins came rolling off the edge of the second floor and hit him on the brim of his cap. He tried to fumble his wand out of his back pocket and magnify the newspaper column (the better to see it with) but it wasn't in the trousers of his uniform. It wasn't there because it was broken. He'd broken it by sitting on it, early yesterday morning with his exploding breakfast cereal (BANG, the bits would go, and then they'd pop) and his faded green t-shirt with a muggle band adorning the sleeve.  
  
"Unstable 'an... possibly dangerous..." he'd read aloud, lips moving slowly with the words so that it might sink in better. He rearranged his copy of the _Daily Prophet_ on the surface of the table and continued, "the curse wiv which You-Know-'Oo attempted to kill 'im."  
  
Stan had always wanted to meet a famous person. And Harry Potter--Harry Potter was famous, but he had also seemed frightfully _ordinary_. And if _ordinary_ people could become famous--Stan made a frustrated sound. That wasn't happening. And Harry Potter wasn't _ordinary_ at all. He shoved his spoon in his mouth and turned the cereal box around. The _Daily Prophet_ slithered through his fingers and fell on the floor by the chair leg.  
  
He woke up feeling discouraged, even if he couldn't remember why. And then he sat back in his secondhand jeans and broke his wand. It splintered in half with a loud snap, and the pieces were sticking out of his back pocket at odd angles. Not that he could have done much with it, even if it had been in one piece.  
  
Stan lurched forward as the bus made an impromptu stop. The wizard with the loud snore awoke, shouting something about a plague of chocolate frogs that were going to smother him in the night. Stan helped him collect his bags and cauldrons, gave him the frog-shaped vitamins for good measure, and sent him on his way. "Thanks awfully for the toothbrush," the wizard muttered, securing the item of interest in the band of his shabby green hat. "Can't tell you how long it's been since I've had a new one."  
  
"Fifteen sickles," Stan agreed, and looped a lanky elbow around one of the poles that ran from floor to ceiling. The bus continued (BANG, and he caught a glimpse of Paris) and Stan reached up to finger the side of his neck.  
  
"Medical Condition," they'd told him at St. Mungo's, some curse that had lasting aftereffects, but Stan thought they lied almost as badly as Harry Potter did. Best wizards in the business, and they couldn't get rid of a few pimples--and where did _that_ leave the medical industry at large? (Of course, curses _did_ have lasting aftereffects, according to Rita Skeeter.) He'd experimented with getting rid of them himself, but Stan had dropped school after his O.W.L.s, and the results hadn't been worth mentioning.  
  
Stan thought maybe the fame was making Harry Potter unstable. He hadn't _seemed_ crazy, but maybe that was what being in the newspaper did to you. The columns seemed to be getting smaller and smaller by the week. (Rita Skeeter, now--Rita Skeeter had _poked_ him, with her emerald green quill, when he went looking to get an autograph from the press. Maybe that was where fame got you.)  
  
Stan leaned over to Ernie and tapped the driver on the shoulder. The bus took an alarming swerve to the right, and someone on the second level fell out of bed with a thud. "Never mind," said Stan, then, and, "you let me go 'an see wot that woz." When he returned, he pulled at his tie and said, "'Ave we got any 'ot chocolate left, Ern?" and leaned over to peer at the bizarre collection of items on Ernie's dashboard, eyes bright. "'Cos I've been finking, see, 'ow all this 'ot chocolate's provided by the management--"  
  
Ernie didn't bother to reply. It started raining when they were somewhere in Bristol, and the condensation misted on the reverse side of the smart gold letters on the windscreen. Stan shrunk back behind his newspaper when the glass fogged up, and when he got impatient, he scrubbed a ragged circle on the window with the sleeve of his uniform.  
  
Maybe Harry Potter had gotten lucky, somehow. Even luckier than he already was, at least. Stan put a hand on the ticket machine and scowled. He guessed that some people got tickets to fame--to that particular bus--and some people didn't. Just like some people got hot chocolate (customers) and some people had to work for it. Stan folded the paper in half and held it closer to the chandelier for extra light.  
  
Even if having your name in the paper did make you mad, it must be worth it. 


End file.
